


A Ballad for Scarred, Lonely Men

by VixenRose1996



Series: Vix's Commissions [1]
Category: Constantine (TV), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), Injustice: Gods Among Us
Genre: Drinking, Gen, John and Mick are sad boys, The complex feels of Mick Rory, brief reference to child abuse, maybe hurt/solace, no so much hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:15:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23239072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VixenRose1996/pseuds/VixenRose1996
Summary: Mick and Constantine talk about beer, dads, and daughters.
Relationships: Mick Rory & John Constantine
Series: Vix's Commissions [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1670857
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	A Ballad for Scarred, Lonely Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arevhat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arevhat/gifts).



> My completed first commission! Yah! Thank you to the wonderful Arevhat!

Mick didn't like Trenchcoat; he didn't like anyone who schemed and lied and used others, mostly because he didn't like anyone that was too much like himself.

Still, there were times he had his uses.

"You look like a man who needs a drink," the damned Brit mocked, kicking over one of the dozen(s) of empty beer bottles that littered the parlor floor around Mick's armchair.

"Piss off," he growled, throwing the one he'd just finished to the ground and reaching for another bottle only to find he was out. 

"Simmer down, Cupcake," Trenchcoat rolled his eyes, holding up a time courier. "I was just going to ask if you wanted to make a stop at a bar."

Mick glanced down at the pile of empty bottles and grunted.

* * *

"This place has some of the brews I've ever tasted on this side of the pond," the Brit commented as he waved over a waitress. 

"Beer is beer," Mick retorted, picking up the glass set in front of him and downing half of it in one gulp, barely even bothering to taste it. 

"True, but if you're going to drink sorrows away than you might as well drink something nice; it'll make the hangover tomorrow morning more worth it."

The second half of the glass was finished off. "I'm not drinking anything away."

"Yeah right," Constantine chuckled into his own beer. He reached over and tapped the rim of Mick's glass with two fingers; there was a small flash of golden light and the droplets of alcohol left at the bottom of the glass began to quiver and swell, growing larger until Mick's cub was completely refilled. 

"Nice trick," Mick commented, staring into the amber liquid in amazement. "Turns out you do have your uses after all."

"Well it's not exactly turning water into wine and all that jazz, but it's useful enough when you're broke and looking for some self-destruction," Constantine joked, popping one of the french fries he'd ordered into his mouth. 

"So you're not going to try to twist my arm and make me spill my feelings or some other bullshit?"

The Brit sneered, "Do I look like Raymond to you?"

So the two of them drank and didn't talk much, other Trenchcoat mention how gross it felt kissing Nora and how weird it would be to not have Ray on the ship. Mick stopped that second line of conversation, not wanting to think about how Haircut would be gone soon. After all, that would leave just him and Sara left from the original crew. 

Rip, Hall, Kendra, Jax, Stein, Wally, Amaya… Len.

Sooner or later, everyone always left. 

_'Fuck, I'm getting sentimental!'_

That always happened when he got a good buzz going. "Got any smokes on you?"

He didn't smoke much anymore -Len had always complained about it and, eventually, he just gave it up so he didn't have to listen to his partner's whining- but he still indulged every once in a while and, after the past few days, Mick figured he'd earned one. 

"Nope," Constantine said, sliding the basket of fires his way, "tossed them all out when I quit. I got a new chance at life, after all."

"Think you'll stick to that?"

"Nah," the Brit laughed. "It never has before and, after a pack a day since I was thirteen, I doubt it ever will. But, hey, who cares about positive life choices?"

Mick gave a grunt of agreement, "You got any family, Trenchcoat?

If the other man was surprised by the question, he didn't show it; but, then again, the man rarely showed anything other than annoyance or amusement. It was one of the many things about him that irritated Mick. Not being able to read people wasn't just annoying, it was dangerous.

"I got an older sister, Cheryl, and a niece, Gemma; she'll be thirteen in May."

"You close to them?"

Trenchcoat shook his head, "No, we've can never get along for longer than a day or two, always end up screaming at each other; plus, her husband, the useless sod, hates me."

"Sound like a jackass."

"Perhaps," the Brit shrugged, rolling a quarter across his knuckles, "but it is for the best. After all, it wouldn't be safe for me to spend too much time around them, would paint a big, old target on their backs for all the demons and blokes and beasties I've pissed off over the years."

Mick understood that; Len had worked hard to keep Lisa out of their line of work for years, despite her own insistence and desire to be included, so no one would go after her. "And your folks?"

"Mother died in childbirth and my father died seven years ago from either his liver or brain finally giving out on him; the old bastard was dead and rotting in his armchair for three days before one of the blokes he owned money too came looking for him, stunk up the house so bad that Cheryl still can't sell it," the other man replied simply, even snorting in amusement as he recounted the details surrounding his father's death. "What about you?"

"Dead. Burned alive."

For as much as Mick was bothered by the skinny wizard, he was able to appreciate that the other man didn't press or push or make any sort of comment. Instead, he just waved for another round of drinks. "My old man was a piece of work, you know? He drank away any money we had in the house and having only one arm didn't stop him from hitting any harder; hell, plenty of the fights Cheryl and I have had were about her letting Gemma be around the man who used to peak into her room while she was changing."

Mick wasn't a good man and he'd done many bad things but even at his worst there were some lines he didn't cross and that was one of them; he felt the urge to set Trenchcoat Sr. on fire or, at least, take a torch to his grave. "Your sister ever said why she did that?"

"Claimed the old bastard changed, as if that was possible," Constantine replied. "I never believed it myself, but my point is that the world is better off without my old man and I never mourned him for a second; as far as I'm considered, he's been dead to me for years."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence again as their beers and french fries were refilled again and again as they both got progressively drunker. His whole body glowing warm the embers of a bonfire, Mick's folded his arms on the bartop and rested his head on his forearms, "I just found out I have a daughter, Lita. She's sixteen and beautiful and a perfect smartass and I can't have anything to do with her because I'll ruin her."

Constantine tore his eyes from a handsome, dark-eyed bartender to look back at him. "A little girl, huh? I got me one of those too."

He nodded in drunken sympathy and smacked Mick on the back. The pyromaniac looked up, "You've got a daughter? You never mentioned anything about that to anyone."

Trenchcoat gave a wobbly nod and reached into one of his many pockets, pulling out a small, ornate silver hand mirror. He angled it towards Mick and, after a moment, Mick's own reflection was replaced by that the image of a little girl with blue eyes, dark skin, and dreadlocks who was hunched over a desk, face twisted with intense concentration as she worked on a finger painting. 

Mick blinked, trying to figure out if he was drunk enough to hallucinate, only for Trenchcoat to pull the mirror back and give it a longing look. "That's my little Rosey; she's eight years old, has straight-A's in school, and loves playing with her pet rats, Waffles and Pancake. She doesn't even know my face and this is the only way I can see her but there is nothing I wouldn't do to keep her safe."

"She's cute," Mick said, not really sure of what else to say. 

The other man nodded, "Clever too, and when I first held her in my arms at the hospital, so tiny and helpless, I swore I'd do anything to protect her. So I made a deal with someone to watch over her, you could even say I sold my soul for it, and stayed out of her life. Twice a year, on Christmas and her birthday, I make sure to send her a present but other than that? She has no idea I exist, thinks her dad died in a car crash before she was born. Rose has a father though, her step-dad, Steven; he's a good bloke, treats her and her mum well, so she's better off with him."

"Is it hard to stay away?"

John shrugged, "She and her mom live on another Earth, or they did, I suppose, so it wasn't always so difficult. But now they live on this Earth and, yeah, it's hard. I just tell myself that now it is more important than ever to say way and that makes it a little easier."

More silence. More beers. More fries.

"They're better off without us, right?"

"It's safer that way, Mickie Boy."

He made the right choice then, for him, Lita, and Ali.

But that didn't do anything to ease the hollowness in Mick's chest. 


End file.
